A Demon's Child
by Mad-Hattie-Hatter
Summary: Evelynn is far from normal. She is the complete opposite of normal - she's a black-wearing, Metallica-listening, anti-social freak. And freakish things happen around her, twisted murder - even when she was a baby, her mother died leaning over her crib. The deaths attract Sam in his dreams and soon Eve finds herself in a difficult position. NO SPOILERS FOR AFTER SEASON 1
1. Evelynn Amanda Hardy

**hellu! This is my first fanfic on this account (I have previously written fnaf fanfics under the name of GhostChildLottie and Harry Potter fanfics under some name)! Sidenote, I'm still watching Supernatural, I'm still on the first season/nearing the second, so this will be a** **NO SPOILER** **fanfic, for newbies and just people wanting to read this fanfic (I have heard a little spoiler about why the demon killed Mary which will be hinted at throughout the fic). Enjoy xx**

A glimpse is enough to set me off. One look and I will fly at her. I. Don't. Care. Samantha Lucy Tull has had her eyes on David Robinson (batting her eyelids and fluttering her eyelashes but looking away whenever he looked somewhere near her direction) and me, Evelynn Amanda Hardy (scowls and glares obviously) all day and it's pissing me off. I'm new to the school - I transferred for sixth form, which started three months ago - but I already know my place and everybody elses. Samantha Lucy Tull has no idea what she's getting herself into. Not with what I have by my side, and I don't mean the dagger tucked into my skirt. No one bothered me at my old school, not after they found out about my past, present, and future. In fact, they did whatever they could to get rid of me, though of course, I left of my own accord. No one can tell me what to do. Not even a whole government against me. They daren't. People seem to underestimate me at this school. They haven't heard anything. That'll be fine for a little while, if Samantha Tull can keep her mouth shut. I'm tiny and antisocial, so most people see me as the small, shy little girl who would make a perfect victim of bullying, but people are quick the learn the opposite about me. I'm feared.

After I drag my nail across my throat towards Samantha, she doesn't spare me a look, not even one, for the last two hours and thirty-two minutes of school left. The silver dagger stays by my side as I treck on my way home, wishing Dad had chosen a house nearer school. Walking two miles every day is unnecessary, due to the invention of the school bus, but fifty, sixty kids in their natural habitat. I'll pass. Dad gives me the "what-have-you-done-now?" sideways look as I slump into the red plastic chair at the dinner table and drop my black bag onto the floor beside me. Dad raises an eyebrow before checking on whatever is boiling on the hob. Men are, according to the media, not good cooks, but cooking is one of the few things Dad's good at. Being sarcastic and eating Doritos before I can even touch the packet fit on that list too. He glances at my bag, clearly showing that he wanted me to pick it up, but I pretend not to get the hint and start eying up the loaf of steaming garlic bread on the table, ignoring my bag completely. It was plain black when I bought it, but since then I've sharpied demonic symbols on it and pinned badges of skulls and band logos (Metallica and My Chemical Romance mainly) to make it a bit more...well, approachable is not the word. I like to think that I'm the opposite of approachable, my dark eyeliner outlines my black eyes and pale face, and my long black hair seems to creep people out when I let it hang over my eyes. I've never seen Bloody Mary but I'd like to think we'd share a resemblance.

"You're late," Dad says, almost glaring at me. Frankly, I'm not surprised that he's expecting the worst, but it's certainly annoying.

"And you're mentally retarded," I smirk, leaning in to take a slice of garlic bread, "I walked thirty minutes from school to this house in the rain, I'm not going to be here at three o'clock, am I?"

He's not having any of it.

"It's quarter past four, Evelynn, where have you been?"

I talk with a mouthful of bread, "Detention. Apparently, rugby tackling people during a rugby game isn't allowed."

Dad chuckles and mutters something about me being his kid before looking at me expectantly, "Get off the garlic bread you nutter and go get dressed, blue is not your color."

He's right. Blue blazers look terrible on me, so I sling it off while at the dinner table, taking my shirt off as I walk through the hall. It's only Dad in at the moment, so there's no one else to see my sheet-white skin and black bra, unless there are any ghosts lurking around the house. Which there probably is, I seem to attract the supernatural. My older sister, Willow, is at university, and my Mom died leaning over my crib when I was a baby, so for now, it's just Dad and me, and it will stay like that. His last girlfriend "died" when she said she might like kids, so there shouldn't be any disturbance for a while. This is good, just how it is. Dad doesn't talk about Mom much, but Willow knew Mom a little and would describe her to me. She was pale (not as pale as me but pale) and had long, dusty blonde hair the exact same shade as Willow's. Mom was kind, she'd spare all of her time to help someone, and she was bouncy and outgoing too. But most of all, she loved us, she'd swing Willow round and round and dance with little two-year-old me, she'd talk to us, read us bedtime stories, she loved us so much. Willow made me wish Mom was still here. I would've been so different. So different...

By the time I've reached my bedroom, I'm dragging all my clothes behind me, before I dump them into the washing bin and pull on a Metallica vest top and a pair of very ripped jeans. It's obvious to anyone who looks at me (though I try to stay away from human eyes) that I am "emo". The rock band obsession, pale skin, eyeliner and the color that I use for everything I own point to that. I've always been like this, even as a toddler I would wear black and dance around to Panic! at the Disco, so I hardly label myself as emo. I don't label myself as anything, other people can do that if they want but I have no interest in it. When Dad yells at me for the fifth time for me to "come and eat my godamn dinner" is when I lightly run down the stairs and give Dad the innocent look before sitting and eating my spaghetti silently, before Dad tries to get me to get me to talk about school and, *shiver*, rugby. The real reason that I had gotten detention was for flying at Samantha Tull during break and knocking her out - no biggie. I change the subject to Metallica about seven times during the conversation, as it's the only thing we can talk about without Dad having a "mood-swing". I once brought up Mom and he cried into his soup. Not pretty. The way we talk to each other, you wouldn't think we'd like each other at all - his old girlfriend seemed to think we loathed each other. But it's nowhere near true, Dad is possibly the only person I'm fond of because, well, he's my dad. We're sarcastic, we throw insults at each other. I think he once called it "banter".

Evening that night is normal. Plain, unoriginal, accustomed. In fact, the whole day is standard; waking up, getting dressed and going to school, getting a normal detention, getting home late to Dad's suspection, eating dinner together before watching whatever is on tv. Dad always seems to have some obsession with the news. I must be honest, hearing about medical mysteries and unexplained murders and missing people is interesting and all but the fact that the high school downtown is shutting down or that the grocery store three miles away is bankrupt is so boring, yet Dad seems submerged in it. Willow once said that Mom liked the news. He does things for Mom sometimes, like putting on Wham!, her favorite, despite how much he hates them, or when he screw his clothes into his drawer before putting them back in neatly, knowing Lissy would disaprove. Lissy - that was her name - loved hearing about other people and what was going on in the world, so the news was always on in front of her. Dad could be doing it for her. Or perhaps he's looking for something….


	2. An Encounter

An ear-splitting shriek sounded around the hall, "SHUTUPSHUTUPSHUTUP!"

If my eyes could get any darker, they just had. They were dark and full of rage like flames were dancing in her eyes, throwing metaphorical knives at Samantha Lucy Tull. Dad found me out last night, once the news had finished. I knew that I had accidentally thrown my bag down the washing bin (a large pipe-kinda thing that takes washing down to the washing room), but I hadn't realised that I'd left my dagger in the bag. It was him who gave it to me, carved with weird, possibly satanic symbols, for my thirteenth birthday, but "to put on display". So metaphorical daggers will have to do for the ways of stabbing Samantha Tull, but still, I fly at her, scratching at her face, her eyes, pulling her hair, punching her face, whatever I can do to cause damage before a teacher breaks us apart. Mrs Stone is an old teacher - it's an inside joke that she was born in the 1600s - so I'm surprised when she pulls me from Samantha Tull and stands between us quickly. More teachers appear at the scene, and as one holds me back from attacking Samantha again, I see that we're surrounded by students of all ages staring in awe and horror. Looking back at Samantha Tull, I smirk at her appearance. I've crumpled her uniform, her face is red, purple in places, with three or four scratch marks with visible blood leaking down her face, while she seems unable to open one eye. I'm appalled that I have to sit in the medical room with her, while just one nurse supervises us. I have to resist the urge to scratch both her eyes out when she whispers to me, "I meant what I said. Mommy's dead, isn't she, Hardy?"

"Yours will be soon," I whisper back menacingly, and leave it at that.

Dad drives me home, after an hour-long meeting with the head. Mr Garrick wants me expelled for a week, but now, I'm let off with a weeks' detention. God knows how Dad does it.

"This has got to stop, you know." Dad demands, "All this death."

I shake my head, "Dad, the girl's not dead!"

"But she will be. You know that. Could you've been any angrier at her? You're attracting the police, but even worse, you're going to attract people who know about this stuff."

Anyone who isn't in our family won't understand this conversation, but I do. "It's not my fault. And let it attract them, what're they gonna do?"

"Eve, people hunt supernatural stuff, and we got more than the average American family do of supernatural stuff." Dad starts, and I can tell he's going to go on and on about this, "There are links to everything, you know. Something'll lead here and you'll get yourself in a hell lotta trouble."

"Dad, she said stuff about Mom-"

"People are going to, she died over your crib in a weird fire for gods' sake! But Eve, please. Even the way your mom died, it… it was weird…"

I let Dad trail off and sit in silence for the rest of the way home, thinking about what he said. The girl probably will die, deaths do attract police, but the supernatural hunters? They're worrying. Our family has a history of being connected to the supernatural, I'm surprised we're not already famous. The Hardy's being famous though - we're hardly the celebrity sort. But then Dad's words about Mom ring in my head. He said it was weird, but...why? How?

"Dad…" I start, "How did Mom die? What happened?"

"It was three in the morning, and you were crying away in your nursery for a bottle," Dad recountered, "Lissy got up to tend to you, so I turned over and waited for her to come back. At this point, you'd stopped crying, but Lissy was nowhere. I got up and went to your nursery, and you were awake, blinking at the ceiling, patches of blood covering you and your blanket. When I was sure you weren't bleeding, another drop dripped down, and there was Lissy, on the ceiling with a gaping great wound. The ceiling burst into flames, so I grabbed you and your sister and fled."

**********somewhere in a state, a short while later************

"Dean. Dean!" Sam's urgent shakes woke a sleeping Dean up with an annoyed groan, "They're back."

After a second of Dean looking at Sam, Dean spoke, "What is? Cops? Spirits? Demons?"

"No, no…" Sam shook his head, "The dreams. You know with Max when he was killing people!"

Dean sat up abruptly, "Ok. So, where do we go?"

"South Carolina."

He stayed unsure of why he had been sleeping at three pm, but Sam was keen to get to South Carolina before the girl died but unsure of why they'd started again. Who was making this happen? Would it be the same as poor Max? Sam and Dean appeared in the crowd of people as they watched a sixth-form girl with long blonde hair and soft green eyes get wheeled into an ambulance.

"There's your victim…." Sam said quietly to Dean, "But who's the murderer?"

"It's not human."

Sam looked at Dean in shock, "What?!"

"What?" Dean said calmly, as if it was obvious, "No human could create a wound like that, come on, Sam."

"It's got to be similar to Max…." Sam thought out loud, "Maybe the murderer is controlling something…"

Dean opened his mouth to say something before an old lady waddled towards the pair, "What are you two on about over here? I overheard the word murderer and thought I'd intervene."

"Do you know who did it?" Dean asked quickly.

"No one knows. I have my suspicions though…." The lady shook her head and tutted, motioning towards a girl with long black hair sitting where no other people sat, "They had a fight just an hour or two before she died, Sammy and Evie…"

"Which one's which, sorry?" Dean asked, peering at the lonely girl, "We're kinda new…"

The lady started to walk away while saying, "Poor Samantha died...perfect schoolgirl, popular, good grades, she had it all. Wouldn't be surprised if Evelynn just got jealous."

***************Near a large crowd where a girl died, same time**************

I'm watching the crowd. Most of them seem to know Samantha Tull, some of them are crying, and a few of them are just gathering to look. Samantha will definitely be in the news, her wound is more than weird. They're like scars, but they go all through her body, you could literally see through them. Now if they think I did that, they must be being biased. I'm not keen on two suspicious looking men, who keep looking at me, then whispering. Mrs Stone was talking to them, probably filling them with information that isn't for them. That woman sure loves to boast. I glance at their car, memorizing the number plate for future reference and swing my legs, bashing at the bricks with my black tattered Converse, before looking back to see both the men towering above me. Rude.

The tallest quirks a smile and says, "Nice t-shirt. I like Metallica too."

I look down. My t-shirt is baggy and has the word Metallica on it, surrounded by holes and rips. My jeans are a faded black, with gray ladders and rips covering the entire leg, so I've got black leggings underneath to cover my bare skin.

"Would you mind if we asked you a few questions about Samantha?" The other one had long-ish hair and a deeper voice than I had expected.

I tuck a long strand of charcoal-colored hair behind my ear and reply forcefully, "Yes. I would mind. But no one gives a shit what I mind, so go ahead."

They're obviously taken aback, but long-ish-hair-guy looked at older-Metallica-fan, and older-Metallica-fan looked at him as if they were speaking to each other telepathically. I wait, glaring at both of them as they start mouthing to each other, their backs turned slightly so I can't see.

"Do you know what did that to Samantha?"

I smirk. Time to mess with them a bit, "Oh, I don't know! Maybe a killer octopus?" I say in a loud, sarcastic tone before returning to my usual forceful tone, "You're retarded if you think I did it, which they sure will. I loathed her."

Before they can say anything more, I notice my Dad's car pull in next to theirs, and he gets out urgently.

"Evelynn, get in the car." He says to me, scowling at the men, "And don't talk to strangers."


End file.
